Dark Hunger Page 11

  She checked her watch as they parked. Eleven p.m. Only one hour until midnight.

  Both feeling the time crunch, they jumped from the car and hurried to the apartment door, but the interior was dark, and no one answered their knock.

  Quinton used his credit card to break into the apartment. Annabelle frowned but stood in the entryway as he combed through the small, dark rooms. Weathered ancient furniture, the stench of stale beer, an empty fridge. He checked the desk for notes that might offer some information on the man but found nothing except a newspaper.

  Then he glanced at the open page—a feature on the band Death’s Door that was performing at the coliseum. B. J. had drawn a big red circle in marker around the name of the group. Death’s Door apparently rapped about devil worship.

  “That’s it.” He turned to Annabelle and waved the paper. “The coliseum in north Charleston—that’s the target.”

  Annabelle’s pulse pounded as they drove toward the coliseum. Quinton phoned Agent McLaughlin and told him that he suspected the concert was the target, and to secure a photo of B. J. Rutherford and pass it to all the security guards and police.

  Traffic crawled by, clogging the road to north Charleston.

  Quinton honked his horn and maneuvered around cars, sometimes taking the shoulder in his haste. Midnight was less than half an hour away when they arrived. Fans had filled the coliseum, a mixture of teenagers and young people with no idea that they might die tonight. Dozens of vultures had gathered atop the building, with more soaring above as if in anticipation.

  The parking lot was packed, and people were jammed inside as rock music blasted the coliseum. Quinton ran the car up on a curb near the closest entrance.

  A nasty black vulture dove toward the windshield of his car, its wingspan casting an ominous shadow across the glass, then pecked viciously at it.

  Normally Quinton connected with animals. He felt a connection now, except this connection wasn’t friendly. The vulture had only fierce hunger for carrion on its mind, and it craved human flesh.

  Quinton’s. Annabelle’s.

  It was almost as if the bird knew him. As if he’d come for some kind of sinister revenge.

  “You’re not going to win,” Quinton growled.

  But as he climbed out, the vulture swooped down in attack. Soon another bird joined in, and he shouted at Annabelle to stay in the car. Two more appeared, diving toward the glass and pecking it viciously.

  He focused his eyes, and his mind, on the creatures and suddenly sent them bouncing backward off the glass. Annabelle gasped in shock but jumped out, burying her head in the crook of Quinton’s arm to shield herself from others who attacked as they raced toward the building.

  He met a security guard, identified himself, and asked to be patched into the head security station. A team had arrived with dogs and began to comb the stadium. Meanwhile, he continually searched for someone suspicious. For the smell of death he’d noted in Savannah. For a person with suicide on his mind.

  For B. J. Rutherford.

  But there was too much noise and too many people, the stands pulsing with the heavy-metal beat.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight.

  They hurried into the security office on the main level, and he introduced himself to two officers who were watching the feed from numerous sets of cameras situated on the various levels of the coliseum. Thousands of people overflowed the stands, singing and dancing in their seats.

  “You haven’t noticed anything suspicious?” Quinton asked, his nerves on edge.

  “Are you kidding? Have you seen the way half these kids are dressed?”

  One camera panned the stage—the members of Death’s Door wore black T-shirts with “Purgatory” in red letters on the front, letters that appeared to be dripping blood. Many of the fans were dressed similarly, and sported the goth look with their chalky faces, black lipstick, and garish makeup.

  McLaughlin ran in with an army photo of B.J. on his PDA and showed it to the guards. “If you spot this man, let me know.”

  Quinton scowled. What if they’d been wrong? What if the suicide bomber wasn’t B.J.? What if this time the demon had chosen a teenager? If the Death Angel could bend a person’s mind to his will, a young, impressionable kid would be the perfect subject.

  And if these kids were into devil worship as the rock band professed, their souls were already half lost.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” one of the guards said. “I see an old man up on the third floor. He’s pushing a cleaning cart, but it looks like he might have something beneath his jacket.”

  “Get him and start evacuating!” Quinton ordered.

  He pushed Annabelle toward the exit to safety, then jogged toward the stairs. He had to find this guy and stop him.

  But suddenly an explosion sounded, the building shook, and pieces of concrete began to crumble.

  The vulture hovered above the North Charleston Coliseum, watching as hundreds of mortals raced from the stadium, a host of teenage humans and college students.

  A wicked sense of delight had bolstered him when he’d heard the name of the group.

  So fitting tonight, when death would greet them into its welcoming, endless darkness.

  More delicious bloody bones to clean, and all from young, youthful bodies. So many more souls to join Satan—Zion’s kingdom would grow exponentially.

  The reason he’d chosen this venue for his mark.

  He screeched his call, alerting his fellow vultures to join him for the party so they could fill their bellies with the human remains.

  The sight of the dozens and dozens of vultures soaring above the North Charleston Coliseum roused Quinton’s dark side, yet at the same time, knowing they had come to bury their ugly bald heads inside human carcasses made his skin crawl.

  He understood the predator’s natural instinct to hunt. Related to the bird’s senses tuning in to the smell of blood and decomposing flesh. His own mouth watered for the taste of death.

  And now justice.

  Dammit, they’d been so close to catching this guy. Maybe stopping him.

  Dilapidated sections of the building lay in concrete and stone rubble, the scent of smoke and burned bodies nearly suffocating as he moved through the mess to assist in the rescue. Paramedics rushed onto the scene to carry victims to safety and to ambulances. Police, security, and FBI agents swarmed the coliseum, as well as crime scene units who began to comb the massive area, trying to piece together exactly what had happened and identify the bomber as well as the victims.

  He made it outside and helped a young woman to an ambulance, then Detective Barbaris approached, rubbing soot from his forehead. The Homeland Security agent joined them. “Did anyone see the bomber?” Quinton asked.

  “We’re still questioning witnesses,” Barbaris said. “But half of them are so in shock they don’t know what the hell happened.”

  “It’s a cluster fuck,” the other agent muttered.

  Quinton noticed Annabelle working her way through the crowd, stopping to interview various witnesses and offer sympathy and help where needed. She was amazing. Obviously upset over the senseless deaths but strong and willing to help those in need. Her stories weren’t written simply for purposes of sensationalism—she really wanted to do what was right.

  “Make sure CSI collects all the security tapes,” Quinton said. “I want to view them myself.” And verify if B. J. Rutherford was their man.

  Detective Barbaris pulled his hand down his chin. “They may be damaged from the explosion.”

  “Get them anyway,” Quinton said. “Some of our techs may be able to restore the images.”

  “I’m on it.” Detective Barbaris clapped his thigh with his hand. “What about you guys? Any idea what’s going on here? You think these perps got together and planned this?”

  “We’re looking at an online support group for veterans,” Quinton said. Although he refrained from adding that he believed a demon was responsible. Instead, he let the
other agent handle the question, and he headed into the crowd, forced himself to focus, to zero in on the people’s thoughts.

  Pain, shock, anger, and fear dominated their minds. And the overpowering scent of death permeated the air.

  He spotted the black vulture perched on the sign in front of the coliseum, its beady eyes boring into his. The Death Angel was taunting him, a sign that Vincent had been right. That demons roamed the earth now, trying to destroy it with evil. A gray mist shrouded the area, telling him that Soul Collectors had also swooped in to steal souls from those who died.

  Quinton glared at the bird of prey, his demonic side emerging. Then the vulture squawked and flew away from his attack, screeching again as if mocking him.

  He cursed.

  The Death Angel thought he’d won. Maybe he had tonight.

  But he’d met his match.

  Soon Quinton would destroy him. Then he’d laugh at the vultures as they fled in terror.

  The vulture buried its head inside the decomposing body, savoring each tasty morsel of bloody carrion as if it were his last meal.

  Although he could always find food later.

  Because death couldn’t be stopped.

  And there were dozens of bodies tonight, enough to feed him and all his friends.

  Delicious death. A constant part of the natural order of life. So why did people fight it as if they could actually defeat the inevitable?

  And why had the foolish reporter gone toward the light in Savannah when immortality waited in the darkness?

  Frustration made him flap his wings wildly and screech his fury. Why had Quinton Valtrez saved her? Was the Dark Lord turning… good?

  They had to force him one step closer to his destiny as a Dark Lord, force him to join the underworld and scrap the rules of humanity.

  Evil had no rules.

  It played to win and it would.

  Eventually Valtrez would realize it and cross over. If not, he’d take him against his will.

  After all, he was Death. And no one could stop him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A feeling of déjà vu along with memories of the Savannah bombing struck Annabelle. Although the coliseum was large enough that the damage seemed to be contained to the upper area, people raced from the building in a steady rush of panic. She searched for Quinton but didn’t see him.

  Knowing she had to help, she rushed over to assist two young girls who were frozen in fear, hunched over and trembling against a large chunk of concrete.

  As they stumbled outside, she noted moments of heroics as a young man or woman stopped to help another, as teens carried the injured to safety. A young woman knelt and ripped off the tail of her shirt to bind the wound of a stranger.

  But the vultures soared above, dipping and attacking the dead.

  One of the policemen glared at her as if she were a vulture herself, and she glared back. She realized some people viewed reporters as leeches, but she wasn’t callous or unsympathetic.

  Still, she would ferret out the truth about this bomber anyway she had to. People deserved to know the truth.

  Two teenagers huddled together beneath a blanket, their surface injuries already attended to. She stopped to tell them she was sorry.

  “Did you see anyone suspicious?” she asked.

  The young girl buried her head in her boyfriend’s shoulder. “No, we just came to the concert.” Her cell phone buzzed and panicked eyes shot up. “Oh, God, that’s my mom. She’s probably freaking out.”

  Annabelle patted her gently on the shoulder. “Answer it and assure her you’re all right.”

  She moved on to another group of teens gathered in a circle, waiting on their parents to arrive. “Did anyone see anything suspicious tonight?”

  “The guy behind me was snorting coke,” one girl said.

  “And a guy had a big backpack,” another boy said.

  The redhead with tattoos beside him rolled her eyes. “He had a twelve-pack in that backpack, not a bomb.”

  “Miss, miss!” a woman dressed in a cleaning lady’s uniform waved at her, and Annabelle veered toward her.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” Annabelle asked.

  “Yes, yes, but I saw a man pushing a cleaning cart. He wasn’t from our company.” She gestured toward the logo embroidered on her uniform. “His clothes smelled like sweat. And he looked glassy-eyed.”

  “Can you describe him? Did he say anything?”

  “He had gray hair, wore work boots, and he favored his right leg.” She rubbed at her arm, now bandaged and in a sling. “But he didn’t say anything. Just pushed that cart along slowly. Then suddenly I heard a noise and the bomb exploded.”

  Sounded like the man security had zeroed in on earlier. B.J. Too bad they hadn’t reached him in time.

  Annabelle squeezed her shoulder, then took her contact information and glanced up, searching for Quinton.

  She finally spotted him, ran to him, and relayed what the woman had told her.

  Quinton nodded. “CSI is supposed to bring us the tapes to verify his ID.”

  The next two hours passed in a blur. Finally they left the site for the rescue workers and CSI to process while they went to the police station. The crime scene unit had gathered pieces of what they suspected were the bomb and the clothing from the man who’d set it off. His body had been transported to the medical examiner’s office. Dr. Sam Wynn, the ME who’d worked on the Savannah case, had been called in to do the autopsy and help identify other victims.

  “B. J. Rutherford is the man we believe to have been the bomber,” Quinton said. “The director of the veterans hospital told us he was bipolar.”

  Detective Barbaris nodded. “I’ll tell Dr. Wynn to obtain the man’s medical records for comparison. That will speed up the ID.” He fidgeted, his gaze raking over Annabelle. “You think these are connected through that online group?”

  “Maybe. The Savannah bomber was a homeless man who suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Annabelle said. “B. J. Rutherford also suffered from PTS and when in his manic state, lived on the streets. I think someone is taking advantage of these men’s mental problems and using them to commit the crimes. Whoever did it found the men through that chat group.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Interesting theory.”

  He excused himself to contact Dr. Wynn, and Annabelle turned to see Quinton glaring at her.

  “What’s your problem?” she asked.

  “Just how far would you go to get your story?”

  Anger slashed through her, and she jammed her face close to his.

  “How dare you suggest I’d do something immoral when you have no morals yourself.”

  Quinton silently cursed himself. Why in the hell had he said that?

  Because he hadn’t liked the way the detective looked at her.

  “I do have morals,” he said in her ear. “I choose who I kill. I also want to fuck you,” he murmured, “and so does every man who sees you, so you should watch whom you’re being nice to.”

  “Being nice is my nature.” Annabelle’s eyes blazed. “And we were simply discussing the investigation.”

  He moved closer to her as if staking out his territory, and Annabelle’s eyes flickered with unease. But Detective Barbaris loped back into the room, cutting their conversation short.

  “Come this way.” He led them to another room with a monitor for viewing. Special Agent McLaughlin had just arrived.

  “What have you found out about the bomb materials?” Quinton asked.

  “Our EDU-BDC unit has collected small fragments of the explosives at the crime scene, and forensics is conducting tests now,” McLaughlin said. “We’re comparing them with the bomb in Savannah to see if they were created by the same source and where the materials might have originated from, if they were homemade or if we’re dealing with a terrorist cell.” McLaughlin paused and set up the tapes. “We’re also cross-checking for matches across the States.”

  Quinton folded his arm
s. “You have any leads?”

  Agent McLaughlin sighed. “I’m afraid not. We’ve alerted security at airports, federal buildings, and other possible targets designated in studies by Homeland Security.” He dropped down in a chair. “Unfortunately, since these two attacks occurred only days apart, we may be looking at another one soon.”

  He was right.

  McLaughlin scrolled through several sets of tapes from various areas of the coliseum first, showing feed of hundreds of teenagers and college students entering the stadium, along with vendors, security, and cleanup crews.

  “Here’s our person of interest.” McLaughlin pointed out a gray-haired gentleman dressed as a janitor. Quinton frowned and leaned closer, noting the deathly pallor of the man, the glassy-eyed look, the way his movements were robotic.

  “Yes, that’s B. J. Rutherford,” Quinton said. “But I couldn’t reach him in time.”

  McLaughlin fast-forwarded through several more sections of tape, then focused on the immediate area where the bomb had exploded. A vulture hovered above, others circling and preparing to feed.

  Detective Barbaris returned, rubbing his eyes. None of them had slept, and he looked bleary-eyed and exhausted. “Ms. Duffy is faxing over B. J. Rutherford’s medical reports so we can verify the ID. She said his therapist had referred him to Dr. Gryphon, a specialist working on research regarding dementia, Alzheimer’s, and PTS. She didn’t think they’d met yet.”

  Annabelle and Quinton exchanged looks.

  “Maybe we should talk to Dr. Gryphon,” Annabelle said. “He might be able to offer insight into how someone could brainwash two former soldiers into strapping on bombs and walking into a public place and setting them off.”

  Quinton knotted his hands. They had been brainwashed. Been subjected to mind control. He knew the techniques, and given the men’s already troubled mental states, it probably hadn’t been that difficult. A combination of drugs and hypnosis?

  A doctor certainly would have the knowledge to do it.